


Changes That Occur (And Don't Occur) Over Three Years

by maybe



Category: BBC Sherlock, Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Cute, Fluff, Johnlock - Freeform, M/M, Smoking, first fic
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-04-12
Updated: 2013-04-12
Packaged: 2017-12-08 07:37:50
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,660
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/758799
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/maybe/pseuds/maybe
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>When Sherlock returns after three years in hiding, both he and John expect that the other has probably changed quite a bit since then. What they find, though, may be to the contrary.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Changes That Occur (And Don't Occur) Over Three Years

**Author's Note:**

> This is my first fanfiction (ficlet, really), the idea came from a discussion about probable Johnlock-y reunions after Reichenbach. Um its quite short...let me know if you'd like a continuation or whatever! Criticism is encouraged! ^.^
> 
> Oh and also this isn't part of a series but ao3 is being stupid and won't let me un-series it! So sorry for any confusion!

It was a crisp October evening when things changed again. John had moved into a new flat, since three years ago. Three years ago was when It happened. The new place was squeaky clean, the walls were the perfect shade of existential apathy to compliment John's mood. It was a cramped flat, but John wasn't a luxurious person, he could do without. The tea kettle was sitting on the counter, eager to brew the constant flow of tea that John tended to require. When he was at home, which admittedly wasn't very often, he was rarely found without a steaming mug in his hand. The new armchair (he'd left the old one at the old flat, too many memories) was barely sat in, he preferred sitting at the kitchen table now, it gave him a surface to rest his head when the air felt heavy and he didn't have the energy to move himself to lie down.  
He still called it the "new place", which wasn't quite right, since he'd moved from Baker Street approximately one week after It. He thought he could handle It, he'd seen countless men die before his eyes. Brutal murders of good friends. And yet, that one morning, John had dragged himself from bed and stumbled downstairs. The sunlight filtered in and made tea. Mrs.Hudson ran upstairs, hearing loud, racking sobs. She found a strong soldier curled up in the floor with tears streaming down his face. They pooled on the floor and John had felt the light salty taste in his mouth and he felt like his ribs were about to crack and send splinters into his heart. And Mrs. Hudson had sat beside him on the kitchen floor as his tears dried, and squeezed his hand and didn't speak for a while. And when she did ask what had caused it, he just shook his head and looked up to the counter. Two cups of tea.  
But that night in October, John found a typed note in his apartment, when he returned from his shift at the surgery. He'd insisted that he keep working, despite Sarah's protests. Without something to occupy himself, he'd go mad, he reasoned. It was probably true. The note was tucked under his kettle, the first thing he reached for upon entering the flat. "221B. Please come." At least Mycroft didn't send the car this time, John mused. He'd been in touch with the man a little bit in the three years since It. He'd met Mycroft for lunch a couple times, as well as Greg Lestrade, who still occasionally called upon him to lend a hand in a case or two. As emotionally scarred as he was, John still enjoyed somewhat the little thrill of being able to assist in a case here and there. John hailed a cab. For a moment his throat felt tight. "221 Baker Street," he managed in a choked voice. How long it had been. He wondered why Mycroft would want him to revisit the flat?  
As he stepped out onto the curb, it began to rain. John let out a huff of breath, looking at the familiar front door. Another short breath when he reached the door to the actual flat. Each step towards his old home was a tiny stab to the chest. He took out his key ring and slotted the key in. Mrs.Hudson insisted he keep it. He held his breath and opened the door, went to flick on the lights. "Oh, good. You've come. I assume you received my note. We're out of tea." John froze. Literally froze. It took all his strength to flick the switch. There stood a tall, thin man with a mop of wild dark curls. A man wearing a purple dress shirt and black slacks. A dead man. Then he was all those things, and also an unconscious man, lying on the ground as blood began to pool under his left eye, where an army doctor had punched him with all of his force.  
~~~  
It only took two days for John to forgive Sherlock Holmes for faking his death. Well, two days, one punch, three slaps, and a knee to the groin. John didn't immediately forgive Sherlock when he explained how his death canceled out John's impending assassination, as well as Mrs.Hudson's, and Lestrade's. As usual, John was baffled by Sherlock's seeming obliviousness to how John would react to the suicide. Then, there they were, sitting in their usual spots- John in the old armchair, Sherlock on the sofa- as if nothing had changed. John's "new flat" was on the market already. They sit in silence, each man staring off, absorbed in his own thoughts. Surprisingly, it is Sherlock who brakes the still quiet. "You didn't get a girlfriend," he says quietly. "No." John answers. He knows that Sherlock must've deduced it, so he doesn't question how Sherlock knows. Sherlock seems a bit confused by his own correct deduction. There's some more silence. John switches to staring at Sherlock. He lets his gaze wander over the complex planes of Sherlock's face, how the sun forms intricate little shadows on the hollows of his cheeks and reflects off of the shiny curls of his hair. He looks at the cupid's bow of his lips, slightly pursed in thought. John is suddenly aware that Sherlock is staring straight back at him. And John says, "I missed you," and although he's embarrassed by his own declaration, he doesn't take it back. It's the truth, after all. And to his surprise, Sherlock very quietly says, "I've missed you too." John's eyes go wide and Sherlock smiles slightly, a small smirk. Sherlock doesn't tell John that his openness amuses him, the way that John's emotions so clearly appear on his face, at least at first.  
John stands and goes to sit with Sherlock on the sofa. He looks at him quizzically, "You....have?" he asks. Sherlock's eyes narrow just a bit in confusion. He nods. "Yes. Of course." Sherlock, forever unaware of physical boundaries, takes John's hand. John is startled, but doesn't pull back. "John," Sherlock says, quiet again. John doesn't say what he's thinking, because he's thinking that his name sounds very nice when in Sherlock's voice. But that's not very heterosexual sounding at all. "John," he says again. John wets his lower lip with his tongue. He realizes his eyes are on Sherlock's mouth, and averts his gaze. He looks into Sherlock's eyes, blue-grey and intense. "There's something I haven't been quite able to figure out..." Sherlock says, frowning slightly. "What is it?" John asks. "When I was away...after....." John grimaces. Sherlock continues, "After...the thing. I assumed I would just continue on and find other work until enough time had passed that I could return. But it was very....painful. Work felt meaningless. Time is a linear progression, and is configured in such a way that every day of every month of every year passes in the same increment of time." Sherlock says, "But, John, in my mind, I do not feel that I have waited three years to return. I feel like I have waited millennia, and each day was agonizingly long and irrelevant. Why is that?" John falters. "I...I..." "A confession," Sherlock interrupts, "If I may," he adds. For some reason that is the thing that sticks out to John as odd, as Sherlock never apologizes for himself. Nevertheless, John nods, speechless, for him to continue. "I do know why that is," Sherlock says.  
Before John can ask for an explanation, Sherlock is off on yet another tangent. "I propose an experiment," he says. "We've not been in the flat one day, you're not going to start blowing up the bloody kitchen again just yet." John says. Sherlock shakes his head. "No explosions," he says, "Yet," he adds, and John shakes his head. "I'll need your participation, though," "Fine," John agrees, "But I'm going to call it off if you go too far." Sherlock nods, the meaning of his grimace is lost to John, for now. "Okay. John, do you enjoy the feeling of your hand in mine?" Sherlock asks bluntly, startling John. John stares down at their fingers, still entwined. Sherlock's palms are soft and surprisingly warm, considering the paleness of his skin. "Er...yeah. I guess," John says, going a bit pink in the face. Sherlock's face does not betray any reaction. "John, do you enjoy being flatmates?" "Yes." "Coworkers?" "Sure." "Friends?" John pauses before saying, "When you're not being an annoying twat, yes." Sherlock nods. He takes a deep breath. "Would you consider a new dimension in our relationship?" John's brow furrows. "In what way?"  
And then Sherlock is very much in John's personal space and he closes the tiny gap of space left with his lips on John's. And the world slows down around them both. John sighs into Sherlock's mouth and there is only the two of them. I am kissing Sherlock Holmes, John thinks. And that is the last coherent thought he manages for a while. He never would've expected it, but the kiss feels very very right. John wraps his arms around Sherlock's shoulders, brings him closer. Sherlock seems a bit taken aback, but complies, drawing his long arms around the shorter man's waist. John weaves his fingers into Sherlock's dark hair and deepens the kiss. The world is shattered and spinning and John just wants all of Sherlock. Sherlock tugs gently at the short hairs at the nape of John's neck and he lets out a small, unintentional whimper. It is Sherlock who slips his tongue into John's mouth. And John's mind is whirring, but not enough to not notice what is different in the kiss. Slowly, reluctantly, he pulls away. And the beautiful, ex-consulting detective (only one in the world), the man back from the dead, looks at him with a questioning shattered expression. And John says, "You've smoked."


End file.
